Best Intentions
by Samuraibrarian
Summary: SWTOR Fem!Knight/Doc drabble. Doc returns to the ship after an errand to Alderaan to bail out an old friend in trouble


Cymae heard the airlock slide open and slipped out of her stateroom. Kira expected to be on the ground at Aurek Station for another few hours going over battle plans with the new officer in charge there. Teeseven was tucked into his usual alcove in the engine room for a long recharge. In that case, it had to be...

Doc was on the stairs above the bulkhead, evidently calculating the best way to make a break for his quarters without arousing Seetoo's notice.

"Doc?"

He jerked around at the sound of her voice, startled, then dropped his head and sighed. He'd forgone his usually meticulous grooming; his hair was a mess, and his jaw bristled with several days worth of unshaven scruff. The slump of his shoulders, and the deep shadows cast on his face by the footlights on the gangway made him look uncharacteristically weary and sad.

"You made it back. I'm glad," she said. "Come with me." She turned back toward her quarters. Wordlessly, he followed.

She flipped the toggle on the electric kettle as she passed it, and resettled herself on the cushion in her corner meditation space. "How'd it go?" she asked, inviting him to take a seat at the foot of her cot with a nod.

Doc unshouldered his pack, dropped it on the floor with a thump, and sat down heavily, propping his elbows on his knees. "Not so smooth. Those House Baliss thugs were smarter than I thought. Republic hostage negotiators talked them out of killing me, though. They were really something."

Cymae bit her lip. She'd known instinctively that the optimism he'd shown before embarking on his errand to bail out a friend who'd become mixed up in the spice trade on Alderaan wasn't entirely warranted. She wished she'd pressed the point and insisted on accompanying him. "It sounds like the expert on smooth talk finally met his match."

"I was at a disadvantage," he said, raking a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Those mercs really wanted me dead."

"How about your friend, the head of the hospital? Is she alright?

"Ol' Doc never abandons a lady in distress. The meat-heads target-locked on my tail, forgot all about her, and she got away clean. Missed reconnecting with her in all of the confusion. Sure wish we'd gotten a chance to catch up."

"A shame. But hopefully you'll be able to meet her again in the future. I plan to revist Alderaan fairly soon. This afternoon, I got a holo from a Corporal Malcom about some work to be done for House Organa, when the Order can spare me for a few days. " The indicator on the kettle clicked over. Cymae rose from her perch, retrieved the tea service from its drawer and set out the utensils for preparing the brew. "After days of enviro-suits, ice-fields, and patching together broken comm equipment without being able to feel my hands, I'm looking forward to a change of scenery."

Doc's holocom began to buzz. "Oh hey, that's probably her. Bet she's calling to say thanks." He fished the comm unit out of his hip pocket. "Hey, pretend you work for me, alright?"

Cymae rolled her eyes and began scooping bright green tea powder into the assembled cups.

Doc's voice took on the artificially bright, animated tone that he used when trying to impress someone. "Hey! You look terrific, Prudy. Have you lost weight? Love the new hairstyle."

"Two years without so much as a holo and that's your idea of a greeting? You abandoned me at our wedding!"

Cymae dropped her tea scoop in surprise. She hadn't encountered a sentient female with whom Doc wouldn't flirt; that much had been clear when he'd begun to chat her up mere minutes after they'd met, in the thick of a Collicoid incursion. The existence of spouses, however, was something that people usually disclosed before they enlisted in a ship's crew...or seriously pursued an alternate romantic interest. She glanced over her shoulder. Doc was cringing at a holoimage of a Twi'lek woman dressed in the robes of a high-ranking medcorps officer and practically vibrating with rage.

"Doc, you never told me you had a wife," Cymae said, keeping her voice deliberately low and neutral. She was grateful to have Jedi training on which to rely.

"We're not married," he protested. "We were barely even engaged."

"Who's that with you?" Prudy demanded, lashing her lekku in agitation. "Another of your good-time _schutta? _Does _she_ know how easily your attention strays?"

Before Doc could reply, Cymae sat down next to him, tea bowl in hand.

"Cymae Masani, Jedi Order...I work with Doc. Matron Prudy? Doc told me that you were in danger. I'm glad to see that you're alright."

Prudy stepped back in surprise. "Master Jedi, please forgive me. I meant no insult. Masani...you're Organa's Paladin, then, the one who took on the Ulgo pretender and put him in his place?"

"The Force was with us, and I had a lot of help." Cymae demurred. Doc stared at her, wide-eyed.

"I heard that Doc had taken a position working with one of your Order. Knowing him, though, I couldn't imagine that he'd manage a posting with someone of your prestige."

"Neither could I," Doc said. "You didn't tell me you were famous, beautiful. Sounds like we've both got some catching up to do."

Prudy glared at Doc, "I'm sure you're aware, Master Jedi, but you should never take this weasel at his word. He said all manner of wonderful things to me when we were working together on Ord Mantell. I was convinced that he loved me."

"Prudy, sweetheart, " Doc said with equal parts incredulity and embarrassment. "Those were sweet nothings...you should never take those at face value."

"I had my parents flown to Coruscant for a wedding that never happened," she snarled. "Loathsome cad. I wish I'd never met you."

Cymae wondered whether she needed to leave the room to let them continue to spar, or to intervene. In the end, her affinity for mounting rescues won out. "Prudy, you seem like an awfully strong woman. It's a good thing Doc made his escape before you broke him over your knee." Despite the backhanded insult, both parties visibly relaxed. Doc cracked a genuine smile. "In all seriousness, though, regardless of what's happened in the past, he nearly got himself killed in coming to your rescue."

"I would never have been kidnapped if it wasn't for him," Prudy retorted.

"On the bright side, Prudy, you've still got that hospital I bought you," Doc put in. "How's business?"

"The gangsters burned it to the ground. Our patients were evacuated beforehand, but the facility and all of the equipment are up in smoke." Prudy fixed Doc with a hard, hateful stare before turning her back and abruptly closing the holocall.

"She still loves me," Doc blithely asserted to no one in particular. Cymae detected uncertainty and regret behind his too-quick boast. She rose and resumed the preparation of tea.

"Confession time," she said as she ladled hot water into a tea bowl and began to whisk it into a bright green froth. "I'll go first. I was involved in the civil war on Alderaan. The Order detailed me there to look into the disappearance of a Council member and to resume his investigation of a rumored Sith planet-killer being developed there. The scientist who had the best information about Master Orgus's whereabouts was in the employ of Organa's Duke.

"And old Charle wasn't about to give up the goods without extracting a favor or two of his own, I bet,"

"Something like that. Alderaan turned out to have an entirely other Sith-created weapon on their hands, one that was a major factor in the escalation of the war. I found Master Orgus, who was supposed to be dead, hard at work on dismantling that menace...and Charle's informant in the employ of House Thul, intending to have him killed."

"Seeing as destroying wacky doomsday devices and going toe-to-toe with their creators seems to be a special talent of yours, you stayed on."

"Duke Alde was assassinated right in front of me, and the Thul leadership was directing Imperial troops and Sith to terrorize civilians. I couldn't just leave them." Cymae put the whisk down with a disgusted sigh. "I'm not proud of any of this. Getting involved in petty back-and-forths between wealthy autocrats is not remotely what the Jedi are for. Before he lost his mind and started calling in hits on other houses, I think Ulgo's insights about the destructive nature of factional disputes and the wisdom of maintaining a neutral position were basically sound." She held the tea bowl out to him.

He took it with both hands over hers and a disarmingly candid look into her eyes. "What Jedi _are_ for is standing up for the people who get stomped on when the big players go at each other, right? I didn't know the details about Bouris himself, but while I was on the ground, I heard some buzz about a knight who offered herself as a hostage to Jharkas Thul in trade for a handful of prisoners, and one who intervened to keep Ulgo's goons from using torture to weaponize the Killiks against civilian bystanders . None of that seemed noteworthy until they also mentioned that she was a beautiful woman who fought like a gray-eyed vornskr."

Cymae, blushing, didn't know what to do with the compliment, so she let it drop. She topped up her own tea bowl and returned to her seat. "Your turn, then. What's your side of the story with Prudy? She says you abandoned her after setting the intention to marry...that's a pretty serious charge."

Doc stared into his teacup. "I didn't abandon her. It'd be more accurate to say that she ran way ahead of me, and surprised herself several kliks down the road when she looked up and I wasn't in lockstep. She was clingy...kept making plans before I could react. We talked about how nice it would be to have some time to ourselves together after the Separatists finished blowing everything on Ord Mantel to pieces, and suddenly she was fussing over matching holoinvites and aisle runners." He wiped a hand across his face and looked up. "I didn't mean to hurt her. Prudy's a wonderful girl. Someday, she'll make a boring proper gentleman outrageously happy. Ol' Doc's just isn't the settling type."

Cymae cocked an eyebrow "Not the settling type as in, not interested in being a dutiful, boring, condominium-dwelling rube with an equally boring spouse, two-point-five offspring, a kath pup in the courtyard, and homeowners association dues to pay, or as in, no commitments whatsoever?"

"Oh, now that's a trick question," he protested. "Best answer is, I love freedom. It's why I fight for the Republic."

"Did you come up with that all by yourself? Sounds rehearsed," the words were out of Cymae's mouth before she'd thought about them, and the playful tone she'd intended to strike was edged in steel instead. _Don't get ahead of yourself, Masani, _she thought sternly, _if you think you can handle this when every master on Tython thinks you can't, you're going to have to be more skillful about it._

If he thought anything about her retort was unusual, he didn't mention it. She had the niggling feeling that he'd played out this pattern of interaction several times before and was quite comfortable with it. "What can I say? Spending a few days in lockdown with a lot of bad-tempered Imperial vassals leaves a man with plenty of time to philosophize. Speaking of which, thanks for inviting me in. It's way too quiet here at the best of times, and no offense to your crew, but you're the only decent conversationalist I've talked to in weeks."

"Good segue." If there was one thing to be said about the man, he may have been utterly graceless about it at times, but he sidestepped aggression more skillfully than some of her fencing instructors could.

"Thanks. Mind, from what I've seen, talking's the least of your skills,"

"One could say I'm multi-talented."

"Huh, I only know of two of them. You're holding out on me, gorgeous."

"One thing good duelists and good negotiators have in common is that they know better than to lay out all of their capabilities out at once...hmmm, what happened here?" Cymae lifted her hand to his chin, and brushed her thumb-tip across a new scar that curved a few centimeters back from his bottom lip.

"Huh? Oh...that." He produced a forlorn, asymmetrical smile. "I caught the business end of a vibroknife during my negotiations with Baliss's goons. An opponent of superior skill and attractiveness was a bigger insult than their tiny minds could countenance. Didn't have the time or tools to doctor it properly, so I'll have to fix it later. Then again," he tilted his face into her hand with a barely-audible sigh "I might keep it. I'm told that ladies admire a man who looks like he's lived a little." He darted a glance at her, soliciting her opinion.

"It suits you."

He smiled again, more broadly this time. Cymae reflected on how unfair it was that he could transition from weasel-faced and disreputable to drop-dead gorgeous with so little warning. He braced her hand with his and kissed her palm, eliciting a shiver.

"You know," he said, "saving the galaxy doesn't leave us with much downtime. It would be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

_Here's your chance,_ she thought to herself. _You've been bucking for a real challenge that doesn't involve swinging a saber for ages. And you've never taken the Council's dogma on relationships the least bit seriously. If you think you can put possessiveness and obsession aside, can love without losing your karking mind, if you think that _anyone_ can, you are being handed the chance to prove it. _

"My schedule is crowded. I need a very good reason to clear it."

"No," he said, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her in for a kiss, "Just me."


End file.
